


denouement

by roguepath



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Discussions of abuse, Gen, Post-Canon, Team as Family, or: a study on the Lack Of closure therion has by the ending, spoilers for the final dungeon/endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15958061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguepath/pseuds/roguepath
Summary: therion wants to tell himself that he doesn’t know what to expect. but there’s no one to lie to — everyone knows his story, his past, knows what lay behind the mask — only himself. so therion instead prepares himself for the book to play a voice of harsh tones, and even harsher words, coupled with slang and rhymes here and there.this isn’t that voice.he doesn’t recognize this voice.





	denouement

**Author's Note:**

> my end for a collab with [tuna!](https://twitter.com/bwdrg) or: some very sad post-true end therion feelings
> 
> EDIT: now with a link to [tuna's amazing art](https://twitter.com/bwdrg/status/1040751796019331073) of this fic!!! check it out!

      Therion knows the drill by now.

      Mattias was a face hard to forget — and from he and Werner onwards, the group knows that the Gates of Finis was not only their final battle, but a reflection of past ones. They exploit their weaknesses easily; Ophilia and Cyrus have light magic covered down to muscle memory. As for melee? Please, between he, Alfyn, H’aanit, and Olberic, it’s more than enough to hold them back as everyone else works to dispel the darkness.

      But that’s only the least of it.

      For in the center of the main hall, there lay a pedestal. It’s carved from an unidentifiable stone, stands at chest level for Therion, an engraving of two flags crossed diagonally in the center.

      Symmetrical. The color matching the stone of the main hall. Not a flaw in its engravings and designs. It was perfect.

      In the center of it lay a storybook. It’s bound by black leather, with intricate designs that mean nothing and anything. The pages are like — well, Tressa described it like the night sky. Dark, smooth to the touch, its text silver and shimmering, never mind the awful lighting.

      And the journal entries.

      As they make their way through the main hall to rid it of the shadows, they’re added to the pages. Stories, memories — most notably, regarding Alfyn and Tressa’s hero of all people. Their expressions morph from confusion, to horror, to sorrow, but they hold down their grief for the meantime.

      There were bigger fish to fry.

      Ophilia and Primrose know this well. It’s not hard to guess why. Therion understands.

      So it doesn’t surprise him when he sees Darius. Rocks sit in his throat, fear weakens his grip on his dagger, but it’s hardly a shock. Rust-dyed hair, cadaver skin, and dreaded green are all shrouded in shadow, and his movements are a perfect replica — down to the stagger that’s put in his step and the weight he puts into his swings. But his words come out garbled and corrupted, not syllables but something its opposite; anti-noise, sounds that blur together, no holy words but a poor mockery.

      They come prepared, though. Alfyn is a frontline fighter, thank the memory of Darius’ weakness against both an axe and his ice magic, stolen satchel be damned. And Tressa is stronger this time around — they all are — but she’s got runes down to an art so she blesses his knife with gales painted a ghostly, verdant green. She nods to Primrose, who transfers her own brand of magic to him; one to quicken his feet, loosen his muscles — which is all he needs to slip through his defenses, and plunges his dagger into his neck. All that’s left is for Balogar’s winds to slice him up until he’s nothing but dust and memory.

      Wounds are tended to, and they take a moment to catch their breath. But the tension in Therion’s shoulders doesn’t go away, because he _knows_ what’s coming next.

      The second not-surprise of the fight: the book.

      The act is done without much ceremony. He takes the book from Alfyn, opens it up to a nondescript page, and waits.

      He wants to tell himself that he doesn’t know what to expect. But there’s no one to lie to — everyone knows his story, his past, knows what lay behind the mask — only himself. So Therion instead prepares himself for the book to play a voice of harsh tones, and even harsher words, coupled with slang and rhymes here and there.

This isn’t that voice.

He doesn’t recognize this voice.

      It’s a _Ravus_. Talking about and writing about the history of the dragonstones, honor, nobility, things too complicated to be starting the godsdamned apocalypse over. Therion’s lips form a thin line, impatient.

 _Is this it?_ He feels the words on a precipice, between his lips and sound as the geezer drones on and on, until he hears a familiar name.

      Cordelia. _Of course,_ he half-thinks, half-mutters.

      But that’s really only the least of it.

      No, no it isn’t the fact that it’s Cordelia’s father, no it isn’t the dragonstones —

_“Though a time may come when you are betrayed by one you trust—”_

      No.

_“— I believe your heart will not falter.”_

_No._

_“You will not lose your faith in people, and this is for the best. For there are those truly worthy of your unwavering trust, and that you will keep them and keep them close to your side.”_

      — it wasn’t any of those things. It’s the matter of

_“Surely a friend will also appear before you, one worth of your —”_

      faith.

_“And so I beg of you, Cordelia: never stop believing in others, for it is this faith that will save you in the end.”_

      It’s the silence that hurts most of all, Therion decides.

      Gnawing on his lip, he flips forward a number of pages. Again, silence. Darkness on the pages.

      There is nothing for him here.

      He can’t bring himself to push the blame at Cordelia. He isn’t that petty; it was what ruined Darius — one of the many, many things at least.

      But then, _what._

      What does he chalk this up to? The lies, the fights, the betrayal — _why?_ Why would Darius—? What drove him? What made him this? What made him a traitor? A murderer? How much of that was a lie? How much of that was _real?_ How — what — why, why, _why —_

“Therion?”

Ophilia. Right.

      He remembers where he is; before the platform, knuckles clenched, pale white. He does not know what expression he wears.

      “Is… Is this all?” Therion asks, his voice low.

      A heavy, somber pause.

      “I… Believe so, yes,” Ophilia replies. “Twas like this for the other entries, I believe — an excerpt, and nothing more.”

      No _“why”_ nor _“what”,_ a fact that he’s grateful for. Therion is in no mood to sidestep answers, even less so to acknowledge the fact that he _wanted_ answers, and for _what_ was a whole other can of worms. So he shuts the book, as he lets out a sigh through his nose.

      “Got it,” he mutters, and shoves/offers the book to Cyrus, who takes it with widened eyes but nothing more. “We took care of everyone on this floor. Just gotta do yours now right?”

      “You’d be correct, my friend,” Cyrus says, his tone admittedly more muted — whether from exhaustion from the fighting or what they’ve learned, it could be either or. Therion can’t blame him. “Whether what awaits us there is the former headmaster or Lucia, we’d best be prepared.”

      “Right.” Again, no questions. The fact of pity is one that Therion still grapples with — in-between foolish pride, and knowing that they do so because they simply _care —_ but once again, one he won’t argue with.

      “After that, all that’s left is…. Save the world, I guess,” Therion muses, punctuating the thought with a dry chuckle.

      Right. No time for being like this.

      His steps falter, and his hands still shake, but dammit, he’s trying — trying to be brave, at least.

      They have a world — and more importantly, a _friend —_ to save, after all.

* * *

 

      Therion walks down the steps from the Ravus Manor, heavy heart in hand. To see one of his group — one of his _friends,_ Therion corrects, tacks on — would be an expected sight. Alfyn, Ophilia, hell, maybe even Tressa if she wanted to put away their bickering for the day, that would be unsurprising. A stroke of good luck even, deep down.

But to be greeted by Olberic instead?

Not so much.

      “You’ve finished your business with the lady of House Ravus?”

      “...Yeah. I have. Told her about what her father told us,” Therion tentatively replies, stopping before the other. He crosses his arms, gives him an odd look. “Any reason for the wait?”

      Olberic taps his fingers against his own crossed arm, brows furrowed. _Restless,_ Therion notes. Most likely to blame on Bolderfall’s cramped space, all sharp corners, snugly fitted structures; a fact not helped by the Cliftland’s heat, he thinks.

      “So I’m aware. But, I worry.”

      Therion frowns. And after a pause, says, “this is about what happened at the Gates,” in a small, lowered voice. A question, but a sullenly posed one.

      “Mm,” Olberic hums with a nod. It had been an obvious fact; that little to no one slept at peace the night after the battle with Galdera. Alfyn and Tressa, for their mentor. Primrose and Ophilia, for their fathers. And everyone else, either from the shock or the fear — they couldn’t blame anyone for anything.

      In Therion’s case, he was scared. Scared of _what,_ he may as well have a godsdamned grocery list for it. _Darius. Galdera. Answers. Death. Failure. Dying. Everyone dying._

      He was a mess. Little sleep, even more nightmares. Like he’s traded questions and bravery for answers and gotten fucked over, ripped off for his troubles.

      “For what?” he asks, and opts to leave out his question of _“why me”,_ because there were people like the others mentioned before, because there were better things to do than deal with his own personal bullshit for the day. But a part of Therion knows that there was nothing without reason, so he gives him that, and leaves it at that.

      “I now understand why the look on your face back there had haunted me so. You wanted answers.”

      Ah, déjà vu. His old friend.

      “Not wrong,” he admits, with a slight sigh. He soon snaps back to attention, remembering the guards posted about the manor. “Think we should go somewhere else to have _this_ conversation, though?”

      Olberic raises his brow at the question, before realizing. “Ah,” he mutters. “Right. Back to the inn, then.”

 

      From the manor estates, through the town, and into the inn, they walk silently. Little small talk, thank the gods — but once they’re in the inn, it’s a different story.

      As Therion shuts the door to the inn, his eyes flick up to Olberic, and to the innkeeper. Their disinterest is a small mercy, he notes.

      On a couch in one of the rooms of the first floor — nothing impressive, but a place for customers to talk outside of their rooms — Therion sits himself down, and mutters a quick “thanks for that” to the other.

      Olberic nods in acknowledgement, before a slight cough into his hand to begin. “So, about… The Gates.”

      “What about them.”

      “Why the look on your face after our, ah, second fight with that Darius… It pained me. And now, I realized that I knew such pain well. Because I had lived it myself at a time,” he says, and it clicks.

      “With Erhardt,” Therion realizes.

      “Yes. ‘Twas long ago that I felt such grief,” Olberic muses. “‘Tis a healing wound now, but nonetheless, one I live with.”

      “And now, you see it in me. So… Tell me. I — _know_ I’m saying this because of my own lack of answers, but… How did it _feel?_ To know what you did about him. To know his reasons.”

      A pause, and a sigh. “You know my answer won’t be the same you seek. I cannot promise it will help you ease your pain.”

      “I know,” he replies.

      He exhales. Then begins. “You already know some of that story. The unrest and the acceptance. The clarity and the answer. But I will tell you this: that while there was no justification for what he did, it was his sword that spoke the truth.”

 _“‘Actions speak louder than words.’_ Is that what you’re telling me?” Therion says, but there’s no malice behind it; only genuine curiosity.

      “In a sense, yes.”

      “It’s not like you’re wrong” he comments. “As much as I hate it… I’m not angry that it was Cordelia’s father. Hell, I’m glad she got her closure. _But…”_

      “You didn’t get your own.”

      “Yeah. There’s nothing that will make what Darius did right — I know that. Whatever we had back then, it… It wasn’t love. It wasn’t that at all,” Therion says, heaving a quiet, yet almost heavy sigh, tapping his fingers on the wooden armrest of the couch.

      “But even still. It. _Hurts.”_ The admission comes hushed and frosty, a little crack of something raw shining through. “Knowing that it may just be, just that. That he was just some awful guy who took advantage of people.”

 _Just like how he used me,_ he wants to add.

      “But, even still, it’s real. Pray, do not forget that — that this pain of yours is understandable to feel. And that you have many a companion by your side to lean on, when you need be.”

      Therion nods, allowing the words to sink in. He recalls the day he found his _‘answer’ —_ one of them, at least. There were too many questions, not enough answers to fill in the blanks in his story. It was that fateful day.

 _That_ day. The Fall of the Second Prince of Thieves, the drunkards of Northreach would call it; always a name that made a frown tug at Therion’s lips — not because he’s a holy man, hardly. But he knows his gods, his saints, even met some of them. And to compare the two, Darius and Aeber, was damn near an insult.

      But he had a point there. Many points, and damn good ones.

      That there were still things to fight for down here.

      That love didn’t make him weak. It had made him stronger.

      That he was glad he didn’t die to the ravines that day.

      That it was never too late to learn. To grow.

      “I won’t,” he says at last. “And, look. As long as I’m playing at honesty here… I’ll keep it in mind. I’m glad for it, really.”

      “Good,” Olberic says. “And I, you. While I cannot be sure to what extent, I pray that this, talk, to call it, has brought you some measure of help. Mayhap not peace, but…”

      “It did,” Therion replies with a nod. “Trust me.”

      “Mm. I will.”

* * *

      Therion writes letters.

      They’re nothing impressive, he tells himself. But they were a suggestion, per everyone’s favorite cleric — a place to get his thoughts down. That if no one else, to write to himself. Write about his day. Write about something dear to you. The basics.

      His latest one goes like this.

 

_I want to think that Cordelia was, well, not happy, but. At peace, maybe. Hearing what her father said. And she was, for the most part. Happy, yes. Sad, also yes. But most importantly of all, she look like she… Well. Like she got some closure out of this._

_That makes one of us. I’m glad for her, though. I really am._

_But she gave me that look — that same, haunted look — that she got sometimes when she was my “employer”, quote quote. Now, unlike Lia and Cyrus, she did ask questions. And I can’t blame her. Not every day your local thief comes back from beyond the Gates bearing messages from the dead._

_I left out some details._

_The thing about Graham._

_Kit._

_Galdera._

_I’m pretty sure she knew I did. She always had a bit of a knack for that sort of thing._

_And after that was the thing with Olberic. Or: lesson number sixteen._

      (The lessons he’s recorded were things both literal and figurative. They range from how to fight onstage, to make it believable, to how to set a broken bone, to how to heal from years of hurt.)

_Trust is a tricky thing. Big talk coming from me, I know. But it’s weird. Your word is your word. You give it. You keep it. People trust their word, and they trust you._

_Trust._

_Hard to come by, easy to lose._

_A weird thing. But, important. To trust in others, to show that weakness, it’s something of strength, I think._

_I hope._

_And in case you’re wondering where Olberic comes in, here it is: I learned — really, remembered, because of him._

_Relearned this long ago, back in Northreach. Was just reminded of it after the Gates._

_He got his answers. I didn’t. Sounds like the case of a princess and I._

_And, I still don’t have those answers. I doubt I ever will. But, like I said; maybe Darius didn’t need a reason. Maybe it really is just_ **_that._ ** _Maybe he didn’t speak to us at the Gates because there was nothing to find in his answers. No value. No closure._

_Which, that reminds me, brings us to lesson number seventeen: find value in people. Not talking price tags, nothing like that — but their real value. What they do, what they want. Those parts, little things like that, go into seeing a person for who they really are. If they’re truly a friend, family, or not._

_And when you find those people, those truly good people — keep them close. Keep them safe._

_We’re a mess, you know. A Sister, a stuffy, overexcited bookworm, a treasure hunter, a knight, a performer, a healer, and a hero of a kingdom. A patchwork family, and always a dysfunctional one, but…_

_They’re_ **_my_ ** _family._

_They’ve been with me to the Gates and back — quite literally — helped me through the darkest times of my life, and now?_

_They’re helping me through what comes after._

**Author's Note:**

> **regular fun facts and meta:**
> 
>   * denouement: _the final part of a play, movie, or narrative in which the strands of the plot are drawn together and matters are explained or resolved. _perfect for the endgame of octopath, but painfully ironic in therion's case, no? :' )  
>  __
> __
>   * i ... did _not_  notice the actual sprites of the journals lying on the floor of the gates when i played through the game again, so that storybook interpretation was some mild divergence on my end  
> 
>   * a bit of the olberic and therion scene was stuff i had planned for _true north,_  but since i’m not quite sure if i’ll get to completing it (and honestly, have something more ambitious for a series right now) i used some dialogue planned for that to make this scene
>   * just making it very clear: _therion and darius’ relationship was indeed very abusive,_  which i _did_  write a full tumblr post on [here](https://roguepath.tumblr.com/post/177472064791/therion-and-emotional-abuse-in-other-words), while olberic and erhardt’s definitely got to being a healthy one by endgame. darius retire bitch
>   * the last scene with the letter featured a heavy amount of destiny lore references lmao
> __ 

> 
> and as always, catch me on my [tumblr](https://roguepath.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/thiefexp)! if you liked this work be sure to leave a kudos and/or comment!  
> 


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